


Written By The Lipstick

by 51stCenturyFox



Category: Torchwood, Torchwood: Miracle Day
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2011-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jilly has a job after all.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written By The Lipstick

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the final episode of Miracle Day.
> 
> Prompt: Jilly Kitzinger re-writes history. This is actually more of a tag for the Blood Line than an AU.

 

She gave it a second's worth of thought, and then rushed to catch up with the blue-eyed man. "All right," she said, trying not to wheeze. It didn't fit her image, but she'd been nervous-smoking a lot lately. "I'm in." He paused for a moment, didn't look at her, and resumed walking. "I'm in!" Jilly repeated.

"Good," he said, glancing sideways as they walked together. They rounded a corner near the park and an idling black sedan pulled up to the curb. Blue-eyes opened a rear door and slid inside, leaving the door open for her. She glanced around first, and then joined him. The car's driver wore a dark suit and didn't look back when Blue-eyes gave him the order.

"To the Office," he said.

Jilly felt a flutter within her ribcage. Was that relief or more nerves? She didn't know anymore, and she didn't care. Jilly Kitzinger had somewhere to go and she didn't have to wait for a call, or skulk around that damned park, or hide, or run either. _She was in._.

As much as Jilly thought of herself as a lone wolf, Ms Number One, she liked to be useful, to hitch her wagon to a star. Of course, she'd always keep her own best interests right up there, but right now, her own best interests included avoiding arrest by the Feds or the CIA or those Torchwood freaks.

 

 

The car hit Dupont Circle and took a spoke turn, pulled up to and around a nondescript office building, then down into a below-ground parking garage, where they climbed out. Blue-eyes slowed as Jilly caught up and they waited for an elevator. He pushed a button. Down. And inside, another with no number. Just "Down."

Down? _We're already down,_ Jilly thought.

The pair alighted after a short descent - she wasn't sure if they had traveled two floors or more - into a silent corridor with archive-patterned wallpaper, soft carpeting and softer lighting, more like the hallway of a white-shoe law firm than... whatever this was. Behind the door at the end of the hall was a reception area. Blue-eyes murmured to the dark-haired woman at the circular desk and they waited. Jilly skimmed her palms along her thighs surreptitiously. She was unaccountably sweaty, even though the Office was probably the dictionary definition of room temperature.

"Mr A's expecting her," Blue-eyes said, skipping the introductions. Jilly assessed the brunette woman's attire approvingly. Prada. Then she realized what she herself was wearing - jeans and a ponytail - and resented the receptionist for making her feel like Frumpy McShitshow. But fuck _her_ , Prada or not, she was just the receptionist, and Jilly was here to be part of Plan B.

Prada nodded, spoke sotto-voce into her desk phone, and motioned Jilly and Blue-eyes to the double doors just behind her.

The bigwig's office was amazing, Jilly thought. Her eyes flicked over artwork lining the walls and two massive statues flanking a sitting area. _Ooh. Were those pre-Colombian?_ A tall, older man, gray suit, gray hair, gray eyes, stood as they approached.

"Hello, and welcome."

Jilly extended her hand. "How do you do, Mr-" She glanced at Blue-eyes. "Mr A."

"Ablemarch. Richard's uncle." The man nodded at Blue-eyes. _So he had a name, after all. And an uncle, apparently. Well, well, well-connected._

"I'm Lucy. " Jilly said brightly. "Lucy Statton Meredith."

Ablemarch chuckled gruffly. "That doesn't matter anymore, dear. We know who you really are. And in the Office, you'll be called whatever you prefer, but we have a brand new identity for the outside for you as well. It's only on the outside where we can't be ourselves, can we?" Jilly squinted, then nodded slowly as he continued: "Are you ready to get to work?"

Jilly flashed a strawberry grin, outward confidence restored. Work. That she could do. Yes. "I certainly am, sir."

"Well, you did such a beautiful job for us with the PhiCorp publicity, and with the China translations..." Ablemarch's voice was velvety.

_And you left me behind there with no money and no way out._

"So I'd say she passed the second test, wouldn't you, Richard?"

Richard -- Blue-eyes - nodded. "Indeed."

"Well, I believe the expedient thing would be for you to show Jilly what she's supposed to do and get her set up with the other things. Or you can have Marla take care of it."

"No, I can do that. The arrangements have already been made." Richard grasped her elbow lightly to lead her away, and Jilly guessed that meant the meeting was over. They headed out of the office anteroom and down to the elevator again. Up, this time. Jilly took a deep breath and caught the scent of Richard's bay rum cologne -- he really did smell kind of delectable in close quarters - and licked her lips quickly.

"Where are we going?"

"Up," Richard said.

"Is Marla the receptionist?"

Richard nodded. "And my sister-in-law." Jilly wondered if everybody who worked for the Families was actually part of the Families'... families. Except her. And probably the workers in Shanghai, but maybe they were adopted. She covered a creeping laugh with a cough and turned away.

They exited the elevator on the seventh floor, and Jilly followed Richard to a door midway down the hall. It was a standard-looking office, 304 on the door and a view of other office buildings and the afternoon sun glittering on the Potomac in the near distance. He waved a hand. "Your desk, your laptop. The documents you'll need are on the lower level, but you can't bring them up here; we'll have Marla show you the archives tomorrow. The laptop doesn't leave the building under any circumstances. You'll be issued a personal computer for personal use, outside of your work here."

"What exactly am I supposed to... do?"

"I thought you had been briefed in China. Re-write history."

Jilly took a breath to speak.

"You've done it before, Jilly."

"I know, but 'history is written by the victors'. Churchill. And we aren't victors. Yet."

Richard smiled confidently and dropped his voice. "Do you really doubt us?"

"PR and news cycles are one thing -- new scandals happen every hour. But history has already happened." Jilly considered that maybe expressing doubt to Blue-eyes wasn't the wisest course right this moment, but as much as she needed this gig, she had no real idea how she was to accomplish what they expected of her, and being set up to fail was not part of _her_ Plan B.

Richard regarded her and crossed his arms. "Where does history live?"

"Textbooks, Wikipedia, and the collective memory," Jilly shot back. She ran her fingertip along the mahogany desk. No dust.

"All chock-full of propaganda, back to ancient Greece. And what makes you think we don't have influence over all of these things? We make things happen and we let people know about them. 'He who controls the present, controls the past. He who controls the past, controls the future.' Orwell. But we don't plan to introduce a two-minute hate, so you can relax. We want to make things better, you know, not worse. It's a long process." Richard picked up a paperweight engraved E PLURIBUS UNUM, hefted it, then set it down with a clunk.

"Imagine, Jilly. An orchestrated change here and there, and within five years textbooks will all be digital. Real shame about the hybridized Indian Meal Moth, too. The hybrids spread a nasty bug, and they love paper, especially paper that's been produced by the world's six largest manufacturers for the last 70 years. What a coincidence, just as cloud libraries come into being with automatic updating. People won't miss books at all, and who wants disease-spreading insects around their kids when they can read storybooks on twenty-five dollar tablets instead? It just doesn't make sense."

"Cloud libraries?"

"You know, the cloud. Where your banking data and your restaurant reviews live. People love to pretend that nobody actually... owns the cloud..."

Jilly's breath caught. _Oh. Oh, they **were** powerful._

"So you see? Relax. Come on, I bet you'd like to see your quarters and have dinner. We have a residence nearby. I've taken the liberty of setting up a suite for you." He plucked a dark green envelope from its spot in the center of the laptop's keys and placed it in her hands. She pressed at the contents. A key on a fob.

They walked silently to the elevator and descended to the parking level and the black sedan.

After just eight minutes in traffic, with Blue-eyes taking a cryptic-sounding call: "Oh, well that's very unfortunate. Which funeral home?" on the way, they pulled into a circular drive and Richard hung up and waited as the driver opened her door. Jilly looked up at the building. _Of course. Of course, of course._

"Close to work, isn't it?" Richard asked her. "Not the best example of architecture, ugly, actually, but it's secure and comfortable, and we've had apartments and other offices here for decades. I like to walk when the weather's nice like this."

Jilly glanced at the river. "I bet that's wonderful."

"It is. The doorman will direct you, and there's room service, and shops nearby if you need anything. I'd meet you for dinner but I have some unexpected work of my own to handle. Good evening, Jilly."

"Good evening, Richard. And thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, and Jilly Kitzinger squared her shoulders and strode into the Watergate West like she owned it.

 


End file.
